


Space Bunker Blues

by trill_gutterbug



Category: Hello From the Magic Tavern (Podcast)
Genre: Crack, Craig is a Robot (or is he??), Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Gore, Guro, M/M, No Actual Sex I Guess??, The Mysterious Man has no canonically defined body shape or species, Why Did I Write This?, Wound Tongue-Fucking, implied oviposition, non-con, so who knows what's going on here, the rarest of rarepairs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-21
Updated: 2018-06-21
Packaged: 2019-05-26 07:33:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14995937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trill_gutterbug/pseuds/trill_gutterbug
Summary: “Oh, Craig,” the mysterious man sighed, spinning his chair away from the control panel. “What have you done now?”





	Space Bunker Blues

**Author's Note:**

> You know that part in episode number whatever where Trisha and Craig blow up the mysterious man and then he erupts from his healing cocoon/carapace with all those burns and says something to Craig like, "Ow, don't touch my raw spots. Actually wait, touch my raw spots"? I have some visceral Feelings about that sort of vibe. 
> 
> (Arnie and/or Adal and/or Matt and/or Tim and/or Ryan, if you're reading this... lol don't.)

“Oh, Craig,” the mysterious man sighed, spinning his chair away from the control panel. “What have you done now?”

“Help me!” Craig yelped. Blood welled between his fingers where they were clenched over his belly. “I- I- I tripped, in the loading bay, I tripped and I fell and there was a spike, and-”

“A spike?”

Tears ran down Craig's face. He slumped sideways against the nearest wall. He was terribly pale. “A piece of rebar, I don't know, it was just- just sticking up!”

The mysterious man stroked his chin. “Hmm, must be a leftover from when the space bunker was a rattling piece of shit death trap. Oh, wait.”

“Please, help,” Craig gasped. “I think I'm dying.”

The mysterious man eyed him. “Dying isn't in your programming, Craig, don't be such a drama queen.”

Craig lifted a bloody hand and waved it frantically. “Look at this! I'm going to bleed to death! Or get septic shock! Or- or- I don't know, whatever else happens when you get stabbed in the guts!”

“Oh, that?” The mysterious man laughed. “That's just a little tastelessly-hued industrial grade lubricant. You'll be fine. When was the last time you had a tetanus shot?”

“What?” Craig's teeth had begun to chatter. “Lubricant? What are you talking about, this is very obviously blood!”

The mysterious man tilted his head. “Is it?”

Craig sobbed out a hysterical laugh. “If it l-looks like blood and s-smells like blood and-”

“Yes, yes, it's probably a duck.” The mysterious man stood up. “Alright, well I suppose I can't have you collapsing in a corner somewhere, the smell would be unbearable. Can't exactly open a window around here either, or a lot of our problems would have been dealt with a long time ago.”

Craig's pale lips quivered. Blood drooled steadily to the floor between his feet. “Please,” he whispered.

“Hold on.” The mysterious man reached out, took Craig's hands, and pulled them away from his belly. The wound showed behind the ragged edges of the hole torn in Craig's shirt. “Hmm, I see.”

“Y-yeah.” Craig's legs trembled. He wobbled, dipping forward.

The mysterious man pushed him back against the wall. He moved Craig's wrists to one of his hands, his claws fitting around both of them easily. He lifted the blood-soaked hem of Craig's shirt, pushing it up his belly. Craig moaned through gritted teeth, his stomach flexing and flinching. Blood sloshed from the hole.

“Well, that certainly is something, isn't it.” The mysterious man did not sound particularly concerned. “What interesting fantasies you come up with in that precious cranium of yours.”

“What?” Craig panted. “It's not- I'm not-”

“Quiet, please, let the master work.” The mysterious man put his sharp thumb against the wound, testing the edges. Craig cried out, trying to pull away, but the mysterious man held him still without effort. “Ah, well,” he said, under his breath, “no point letting it go to waste.” And then, meeting Craig's eyes: “Don't say I never gave you anything. And don't pull my hair.”

“What-” Craig said again. “What hair?”

But the mysterious man had already dropped to his knees and put his mouth over the hole in Craig's stomach. Craig made a sound halfway like _“No!”_ and halfway like _“Oh!”_   He jerked forward, muscles seizing all at once. He folded down over the mysterious man, but his wrists were still firmly gripped and his nerveless legs only shook and buckled when he tried to pull away. He couldn't move, he couldn't- He couldn't-

“Oh, _God_ ,” he sobbed.

Something was... Something was _in_ him. Too many horrible sensations at once. Dozens of tiny sharp teeth, smooth thick gums, squeezing membranes, fluttering, pinching, scratching, clawing. And through the centre of it all, inexorable, inescapable: a tongue. It pushed against him, felt the edges of where he was torn, and dipped inside. It went- It went _deep_. Deeper than it should have, deeper than he'd been stabbed, deeper than his belly was thick. He clenched up all over and felt the shredded muscle of his stomach squeeze around the thrusting tongue.

“How, how are you-- Oh, god, oh, why are you-- oh god, _oh!_ ” He opened his mouth on a silent scream.

The tongue slithered into him like a snake into a rabbit's burrow. The mysterious man made a low sound with his lips pressed tight to the bloody flesh of Craig's belly. His eyes were shut. His sharp hand was squeezing the life out of Craig's cold wrists. His other hand was pinching Craig's hip.

The tongue pushed and pushed. There was so much of it. Was it going farther in? It couldn't be. Craig's whole belly was full of it, it had to be. He was stuffed with it, his wound stretched around the smooth wet girth of it. He knocked his head back into the wall and screamed through his teeth. He felt the tongue rubbing at him inside, up against all his bare vulnerable organs, into the silky membranous spaces between them. It pressed, it twisted, and he was- he was going to-

The tongue withdrew. It snapped out of him like a recoiling vacuum cleaner cord, with a noise that was nothing like that. Craig howled, pitching forward.

The mysterious man held him up. “Well,” he said, sitting back on his haunches. “I've had worse.”

Craig panted desperately, crumpled forward on useless legs. Was he going to be sick? His vision swam. “What did you- what _was_ that, why did you do that!”

“Oh, please, don't say thank you. Look, you're all better!”

Craig looked. His stomach was- It was fine. It was fine? His shirt was torn, but dry and white. No wound, no blood, no-

“H-how,” Craig breathed. “How did you...”

The mysterious man released his wrists. Blood rushed back into them with an awful pins and needles burst. Craig jerked them away by reflex and saw that they too were clean, as though he hadn't just been holding his own guts in minutes before.

The mysterious man smiled at him with many white, shining teeth. His face was clean. His tongue looked... Well, Craig didn't look at that.

The mysterious man stroked Craig's stomach. “How do you feel about parenthood, Craig?”

“I- I don't- I don't understand,” Craig whispered. He couldn't gather the air to speak any louder.

“Ah, well. I guess you'll find out in about six weeks.” The mysterious man stood. He patted Craig's cheek. “Chin up, buckaroo. The worst is yet to come.” He turned and sauntered away.

Craig slumped back against the wall, whimpering. 

He wanted to go home.


End file.
